ABBA Group Stage Round 2

[Sekot]

All good stories have good characters. It is important to understand characterization, to do your research and learn from others how they made theirs. To that end, our next prompt is as follows:

Use the Main Character from any story in Round 1 of your group stage, incorporate it and have it work and interact with the Main Character from your story in Round 1.

Key points: It must make sense. It must flow. Adapt elements from their story to make it fit (yes, I'm telling you you need to read the other entries) yours. If you wrote yourself a stand-alone where the main character died, then re-use your world. Make it work, points will be deducted if I feel you're being lazy or not getting it. If their characters are bad or don't make sense then change it to make them better. I want you to build off of what you wrote before. If that means rewriting your previous story with this new character that's OK, but make it better.

You have until Tuesday, August 22 at 0000.

[James]

The Angel of Hope

“Are you sure you’re going to be alright, Angel?”

I looked up from my cards. At the other end of the bar, a man had his hand on a woman’s shoulder. She was so slight it honestly looked like she might vanish from existence at the end of the night rather than face the weather outside. Glancing down at the old wooden surface, I took in the Angel of Hope card staring back at me. It looked like this was going to be a rather simple reading to interpret. Swiping the deck from the bar and pocketing it, I plucked my drink from its mat and made my way over to the now lonely woman.

The cards had led me to this small, quaint little bar in what was a small and quaint little state of America. Some ancient rocker had performed a set on stage. Several people in the bar insisted she was famous, an icon. What she turned out to be, tottering on stage to polite applause, was a middle-aged woman with a British accent and enough makeup to cake most of the East Coast. My grand adventure didn't seem quite so magical now. I'd chosen America to start my travels, to reignite my life. Still, the shadow of Simon clung to me, and the claws of Ramsgate had left deep wounds. Even now, a whole new continent ready to explore, anxiety washed over me. I remembered, with burning shame in my throat, that first night in New York, where I felt the crowded streets press down on my chest and suffocate me. My only recourse were the cards. They had become a crutch, telling me to live my life, whispering sweet words of reassurance in my ears. I was a passenger to my own life.

"Do you mind if I join you?" I spluttered out. The woman, Angel, looked at me with something that lived equal distance between fear and loathing. Somehow, opening up conversation with a woman at a bar was even worse than chatting up a bloke. At least, I had experience with the latter. "I'm gay. If that helps. I'm not trying to sleep with you." Smooth.

She laughed all the same, though it seemed unable to reach her eyes. "That's an interesting pick-up line."

I took the bar stool next to her and she didn't protest. Exactly why my future was interlinked with Angel's wasn't obvious at the first glance. Pale, her face was partly hidden behind her hair, as if it was a door to the outside world. She was crouched over the bar, the weight of the world pressing down on her shoulders. "I just thought you needed the company," I said and was surprised to find out that I was telling the truth. "Tough week? Your friend seemed concerned."

Before Angel could answer, the allegedly famous and definitely sozzled singer dropped in the stool next to her. Her face was all angles and rough edges, her hair a shocking bright red. She ordered a drink, a cocktail that would find it hard to match the mixture of liquor and cheap perfume that was already wafting off her. I turned my back to her, using my shoulders as a shield for Angel, to hide the drunk woman from her sight. I hardly knew the girl but she had that look, innocence or naivety, the one that made you instantly protective of her.

"It's not been the best week," she said.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

Well, that was a conversation stopper. Tapping at the bar, I allowed the silence to wander on. It was an old technique that was useful to someone who used to fake card readings. People hate silence more than they hate small-talk. Inevitably, the gap would be filled and some valuable morsel would escape. Angel didn't budge. She stayed silent and then I felt like the drowning one, desperately searching for something to kickstart the conversation. My own medicine tasted foul.

"Haven't had the best week myself," I offered and tried to suppress the cringe running up my spine. "You ever get the feeling that you can't escape the future? Like, you can't control anything? You just gotta do what you have to do?" I sounded like a pretentious prick who had suddenly stumbled across a philosophy book.

Angel wasn't rolling her eyes at me, though. If anything, she looked at me like I had declared the moon to possess a somewhat greenish tinge. "I wish I knew that I had a future."

"Everyone has a future," I said. "Trust me, it's kind of my line of work."

"I mean, like, an actual future. Not some passage of time where I have to watch my friends get hurt, to sit there helplessly."

A creaking voice pushed my reply aside. "Well aren't you two just a bunch of miserable cunts."

Angel and I looked up, our wide eyes a reflection of each other as the ancient singer loomed over us. It was as if she was standing in the middle of a strong storm, swaying, the wind battering her from all angles. The glass in her hand was empty. It seemed to be there more as a comforting weight against her skin. Opening my mouth, I went to say something, to tell her to kindly leave us alone, before realising I wasn't good at this type of thing. Simon had always scared off the drunks. How did you tell a sixty-something old woman, who was clearly under the influence of an entire brewery, to piss off?

"Life of the fucking party, right?" the Singer continued, shaking her head. "That's the trouble with these bar shows. A good show rely on the energy of the audience and I've got to deal with mopey shits like you."

"Can you just leave us alone?" I basically puffed out my chest as I said it and felt like an idiot.

"No. Now, listen here. Both of you," the Singer swung her finger to Angel, the discoloured nail like a weapon pointing at her face. The girl jumped. "You feel like you don't have a future? Well, fucking make one, love. Ain't no one stopping you. Your friends getting hurt? Then shank the bastard hurting them. No one's making you helpless but you. So fucking deal with it."

"And don't get me started on you, Mr I Read a Fucking Book About Free Will One Time," the Singer continued, turning on me just as I opened my mouth to defend Angel. "Honestly, if this country wasn't as soft as my late husband's cock, rest his soul, then I'd give you a public smacking. Who cares if your future is already set in bloody stone? What's the point in worrying then? It's still your choices that leads to your future. That's what we call cause and fucking effect, love. So stop being a mopey fucking cunt who relies on a pretty shit excuse to explain why he's not loving life. Now. I'm going on stage to do the second half of my set in ten minutes. Either fucking get on the dance floor or fuck off. You're killing my vibe."

With that, the Singer strutted back off toward the stage. She knocked over two beer bottles as she walked. Angel and I stared after her. Neither of us spoke. I wasn't sure if we were capable of speaking. A bomb had exploded beside us, sending shrapnel deep inside our brains. All I wanted was to write off the woman's words, to go back to the world where I hadn't been abused by a drunk rocker trying to reclaim the 1970s, but it was hard to escape her reasoning. My old teacher, Mrs Worrester, had said much the same in considerably less colourful language. Sure, if the future existed to be read, then it must be reasonably firm in its certainty, but that didn't stop your choices from having consequences. Time didn't work like that. I thought about the cards in my pocket. They'd said I was going to talk to Angel, but I still made the choice. I still stammered painfully through introducing myself. That was all on me, not the cards, not some concrete future.

"I think I need to phone someone," Angel said. Her voice was soft, like a blanket wrapping itself around me. There was a hint of a smile, though, and when she stood up, she stood tall. "It was nice chatting."

I was left alone at the bar, my thoughts still churning in my head. God, I needed to get out of Maine. Who came on an overseas trip and spent it in Maine? Tomorrow morning, I decided, I was heading straight back to the Big Apple. I'd swallow the anxiety back and if I needed to rely on the cards, then I'd take the assistance gracefully. Standing up, I took a step toward the door when all the lights died except for the one shining on the stage. The Singer walked on with a smattering of applause.

"Right. I've got a request from a lovesick husband with questionable choice in music. He wants me to do a Robbie Williams song. Well, Robbie might be a daft cunt, but I'll give it a go anyway. So Karen, this one is for you. I'm loving Angels instead."

I paused and the laughter escaped before I could stop it. Maybe it hadn't been such a simple read after all.

[Allya]

Oz

I watch our driver speed away, heading back towards the city lights. Rêve shines in the distance and the temple’s beacon pierces the night sky high above it trailing so far into the black that I cannot trace its end. Thankfully the new recruit was largely silent during our journey through the tunnels. I noticed her hands trailing along the walls and her surprise at our driver's appearance but she kept herself relatively composed. Motor heads can be a bit of a shock if you've never met one.  I’ve had worse recruits and I count my blessings that our journey has been easy thus far.

Sometime the Ocs see more before we can get the newly awoken from the city. Sometimes we never see our new recruits again. It’s tempting to spring them immediately but too much information can color their dreams and the dreams are important. The dreams are everything. They are the key to all of this.

We stand before the wood that I have traversed many times. The old roots twist and gnarl along the floor. The branches tangle and knot above. The crooked wood is no place for a novice. It is here that many are lost. But I am careful. I hiss and chirp in distinct pattern and wait for the return signal. The iamo returns the call and I see his eyes blink from the shadows.

He was staring at the light again. What few I have seen of his kind are always in the dark yet they seem to revere the light. I wonder why they hide from it. Perhaps instead they hide from us or the Ocs. Probably the Ocs. We all hide from them.

“We go?” The girl, Wren was it? The girl seems startled by Rytt’s appearance. I get it. Four fingered, pale, huge wet eyes. Iamo take a bit of getting used to. But time is something we do not have.

“Yes, we race her dreams. We must get to Catch.” He motions towards the wood. I am relieved to see the girl following with no hesitation. She seems to have resigned herself to this journey and understands that questions only delay her answers.

“We go.” He moves back into the dark of the branches and we follow. I walk behind the iamo with Wren behind me and Tink’s brother Tank at the tail. His slim build barely makes a sound behind us but I know we are safe with him in the rear. The whispers are no match for his mind.

I hear the girl behind me. Her short breaths betray her fear. It’s understandable. I think if she could see what I have seen she would be more afraid. The wood has no end. Other recruits have spoken of holidays with family at beaches and other cities. I know they are lies. Somehow the transmission must make them think they have traveled. Because I have seen the view from the sky boats above. There is nothing else. There is only Rêve and the wood.

The whispers start to tickle at my ears. They pull with promise, they taunt with fear. The girl’s breath has grown more labored. Determination or confusion? “We stop?”

“No!” I grab her hand and pull her in front of me. She looks at me with wide, startled eyes. “They will creep into your mind. They want you to turn back. Do not. Follow Rytt and we shall find our destination. Stray and you will die in this darkness.” She doesn’t even move her head but her breath has calmed. We keep moving.

Behind us Tank is striking at the branches. He knows they close around us. Our time is short. “We take a different way this time. The wood has learned the old path. But we can see in black.” There was a time when our kind treated iamo poorly. That much we have puzzled out. But either through kindness or need they have forgiven. They work with us to tease out the truth of our circumstance. I am grateful for their pragmatism.

Rytt stops and reaches to the ground, bringing up a squirming grub the size of his fist. He snaps the thing in half revealing a blue glowing ooze. The iamo spreads the ooze on his face and hands and then hands the grub to me. Wren shakes her head to protest but I follow Rytt’s lead. Once we are all covered we begin moving again.

After about ten steps we find ourselves in a small grove. The limbs and roots have retreated and a bioluminescent moss climbs the trunks that encircle the clearing. “We are from the ground now, the iamo points to his face, “the whispers will not try to snare us here.” And he is right. The sounds have retreated. Those pale-skinned guides are always coming up with something new!

Our walk is long and I begin to worry over the time. The girl cannot sleep before Catch speaks with her. There is no way to tell time or distance in the wood. I have only the ache in my feet to tell me of the distance we have traveled, only the weight of my eyes to tell me the hour. “I don’t know how much more I can do.” She is tired and confused.

Rytt pauses and clasps his pale fingers around hers. “It is soon.” He tries to sound comforting. I hope he has succeeded. She says nothing more and we move to follow him again.

The clearing ends and we are once more in the darkness. I feel the branches closing around our pack. There is an urgency to their scrapes. They seem to want to pull at our hair and clothes. Behind me I hear Tank’s labored breathing. I hope the iamo is right because we cannot last much longer in this space.

“Oz!” Tank’s voice is shrill and urgent. Rytt breaks out into a run and I push the girl to follow. We clamor through the tangle as fingers scratch at our faces and pull at our feet. I hadn’t heard it at first but now I understand Tanks concern. The growl is coming from all around us. It’s coming.

“We are close. Keep running!”

As the growl closes in the sound begins to drown out all others. I follow Rytt as best I can and wrap my hand around the girl’s arm. She is trembling beneath my fingers and she has good reason. The growl has turned to a buzz, revealing the true nature of our hunter. The swarm is almost upon us.

We catch up to the iamo and I feel Tank at my back. I watch as Rytt’s fingers press into the bark of a nearby tree in an intricate pattern. A door slides open and light pours into the wood. We collapse into the entry way and it slides shut with a snap and a hiss. From the other side we hear the ping of metal on metal.

We catch our breath in the entryway. Tank stands first and pulls Rytt to his feet. The iamo pulls a hood over his face. He may love the light but he can only handle a bit at a time. Wren just sits quietly for a moment trying to control her breath and slow her heart. As her breath slows she turns to me and asks only, “What?!”

“The Hands,” I say. “They do not work in the crooked wood. They cannot remake it. Those that try join the swarm. It eats everything it touches but leaves the trees alone. As far as we know it doesn’t have higher thoughts than that. It eats, it hunts, it patrols. We have tried to capture some and reprogram them as we have the Hands. We…it…,” I wave my hand and shrug, “we do not have all the answers yet.”

We are here. Safe for the moment. I lead them down the stairwell and through the inner door. The chamber below is warm and comforting. The orange light of old style lamps is a welcome change from the piercing fluorescents in the passageway. The furniture is worn but comfortable and the air smells of soup and bread. Catch has always known how to make an impression.

The four of us stand there and take the room in. Perhaps we have stood to long or too silent because Catch is startled as he comes whistling into the room from the kitchen. They nearly drop the pan of bread they are holding in surprise.

“You’re here!” They glide to the table in the center of the room and place the pan on a towel at the center. “Good; eat!” He motions to the table. “We’ll talk when your bellies are full.”

We eat and I can see Wren’s brow furrow as she tries to figure Catch out. Catch tends to throw off the newly awoken. Their features do not resemble either sex. They are both strong and soft, rough and gentle, they are warm and steely. They are one of a kind and the best at pulling meaning from the dreams of others.

Our food quickly disappears. We are warmer and calmer. Catch reaches smoothly across the table and pats Wren’s arm with his smooth dark hand. “There now. Isn’t that better?” She nods and visibly more relaxed. “Good!” They stand and extend their hand to her. “Then let’s you and I have a chat in the kitchen while we wash up.” The lilt to their voice makes it clear the invitation is a formality. They walk into the kitchen and Wren follows.

Rytt and I retire to the couch and wait. We know that we are not wanted for this part and know better than to push past the boundaries set by Catch. The iamo stretched out on his end of the couch and lets out a deep yawn. He is soon fast asleep and I find myself following his lead. As my lids close my eyes fall on Tank who is still at the table. He watches us, always on alert. I feel safe enough to sleep.

My dreams are not nearly as telling as they were when I was first awoken. I dream of cities and ships. I dream of silver falling from the sky. I dream of waters turning from blue to black. I dream of ruin and my dreams tell us nothing of today.

I do not know how long I have slept but my body tells me it has not been enough. Tank clears his throat as Catch and Wren return from the kitchen. Responding to the gentle cue, I open my eyes. They plop between Rytt and I and Wren sits on the chair adjacent to the couch. “She will need to speak to the sky runners. She knows him. She calls him Father. They must help her see more.”

Tank grumbles and sits lower in his chair. I completely agree. Usually we bring the new ones here and then our work is done. They are smuggled to one of our camps and learn a trade. They learn to build with the motor heads or they watch like me and blend into the city. It is rare that any are taken to the techs in the sky. It will be a long journey.

“Fine,” I roll over on the couch and pull my jacket collar up, “but first we sleep.” I do not wait for a reply. The dreams pull me back into their welcome fog and for the moment I am comfortably numb.

[Injin]

Dust.

The Library, old and twisted, was a place struck out of time. A repository of knowledge that had been chosen by the whims of one of the founders of the Bureau, it had been destined for destruction, to collapse in its own abandonment and decrepit mire. The walls, originally wooden and rotting, had long been replaced with smooth, faintly glowing stone that gave just enough light to read all but the smallest or most incomprehensible of prints. Each bookcase was lacquered wooden, but the original teetering and aging models had been replaced with fine Cedar, the smell wafting gently, protected from the movements of time. The only original part of the old library was the dirt and stones beneath the floor coverings, neatly girded by velvet carpet.

It was this hall of books that Zosime entered, her eyes heavy and lidded, and sat down at one of the tables. The Librarian, one of the higher ranked members of the Bureau, was nowhere to be found. She was on her own. Despite the pillars and columns of novels, almanacs, and treatises that lined the shelves around her, Zosime, untitled now, bored her eyes directly into the dull brown of the wood table. Gone was her armor, discarded in her living quarters. Her shield and sword, nowhere to be found. The spear that slew dozens, if not hundreds of monsters, snapped in half in her room. She still had splinters in her hand, but she paid them no mind. While her hair had not gotten greyer, it was unkempt, a lack of care save for a single pin keeping her hair neat. The pin itself was silver, yet tarnished. It held no shine.

Zosime’s eyes stared into the wood table’s whorls and knots, her eyes tracing every inch of the wood. “What am I doing?”

Slowly raising her head, she got to her feet clumsily, her body feeling heavy despite the complete absence of armor. Her pristine cloth wraps that had served as part of her daily and mission uniform was torn, barely cleaned or upkept after that battle in the Alps. Tensing, she felt a throb at the side of her ankle, bringing it up more gingerly as she plodded her way through the library, to where a guide could be found.

She could not take advantage of the portals of the Bureau to visit the Oracles of Delphi. It would be a blatant misuse of her authority to do so. No, even as a failure she could not do that. Instead, she would reach across space and time and open the only portal that could be legitimately used in a sacred place like the Bureau.

The Book of Cartamancy was an ancient book, one of the first installed in the Library once it was nestled inside of the Bureau. With it, anyone could contact a cartamancer and ask for their fortune to be told. Of course, when the Bureau first came into existence is difficult to pin down, but cartamancy in its varied forms had existed long before it. While she could not pull a cartamancer into the Bureau or visit a cartamancer on purpose, Zosime knew that this book could bring them to some place liminal, some place between places to avoid all the potential headaches direct intervention could cause.

The book opened.

---------------------------

I had always wanted to tell the world its future. Yet this act, this art of fake cartamancy had caught up with me, striking my mind out of its normality. Wandering in its own reaches, I saw my mind stretch for the first time in ages, conducting its own orchestra and breaking out of the boundaries of banality.

And still, I endured one more visitor that night of revelation, moments before I swore Simon was about to return. Interrupted. Just as before, the plan I had constructed for myself found another who would draw me to them by force.

I could not see the totality of her form, but what I could see was guarded, dark. Exhausted. I was called to a place, resembling the inside of the Emporium, but older. Time had passed this place as if already foretold as a doomed place for those who would inhabit it. This was not my Emporium, but one that could be one day. Abandoned. Anxiety churned in my stomach and within this seaside casket, as the environs settled, I could more clearly see this woman. Greek, this olive-skinned, hulking woman reminded me very little of any customer I had ever had. Why had she called me here, I wondered before the woman answered for herself.

“My name is Zosime,” she rasped, her voice sounding raking itself out of her esophagus. She closed her eyes and sighed, her body-language softening in the pale light of the room. “Oh, hallowed cartamancer, I beseech you; my past, my future, and my present are in flux. Nothing is clear. Open my eyes.” Her voice was flat, deep, and listless. I had met clients like this before. Unwilling to tell me the whole story, but needing, demanding that they’re told what they needed to hear.

Wait. No, I was looking at her face more than her body language. Clearly, as I peered closely, there was a nervous desperation in her. What had dominated my vision of Zosime was initially her hawk-like eyes, but now I saw something soft, weak, in the way that she held herself up even while sitting. I could feel the limits of this space already. I was detached, separated from the time I had been surrounded by moments before Zosime first appeared to me, but time, to her, was of the essence. The way she leered, stared. She didn’t care for time, but she wanted to ensure this transaction happened quickly. The sooner I was done with this, the sooner I could have that talk with Simon.

“Just, just your fortune, right?” I asked, stammering as I spoke for the first time in the now silent room. I couldn’t hear Zosime’s breathing. If it was there, it was faint, shallow. As if she felt it was unnecessary.

“Only mine,” she replied, leaning further forward. Layers of muscle, far more toned than any woman I’d seen before, tensed as she grabbed the table. As I quickly pulled back, Zosime flinched, sitting back and straight. Her hand was clearer now, wounds sticking out like a sore thumb as she pulled them aside. Splinters? Had she arrived here with those or had she gotten them from the table?

Zosime gave me a small, pained smile as she lifted her hands off the table. Was that soot on her shoulder? I nodded, letting some of the pressure building in me out as I sighed. She was just as anxious as I was. She wanted to begin. “Three cards, then,” I said, nothing more to say as I got to work, shuffling the cards as I tried to imagine the woman before me. Greek. Tense. Desperate. I remembered those things as I finally placed a familiar deck onto the table, focusing my magic into the cards and pulsating that feeling through the cards. I was the operator of the rail lines, feeling for the track I knew was there, but had not seen. The deck felt less familiar now, changed, but I couldn’t back down. It was time.

“This is the reading of your past,” I said to Zosime, turning the card over and revealing something unfamiliar. The name came to me, calling a tune of a memory I had not yet made. Dozens of men and women in a military formation, protecting one another. The glint of their bronze armor shined in the reflection of the unseen sunlight. “The Phalanx. This was a safe role, where you didn’t have to change and you could function as you always did. Routine was what you relied upon and within that routine, you flourished.” Zosime’s face tightened at the word Phalanx, a familiar, yet weaker creaking of the table echoing. Her balled up fist pressed up against the table, I could feel it. For Elliot, I hadn’t needed to explain, but for Zosime I felt immediately that she needed to hear the interpretation.

“You are a true cartamancer,” the austere woman said, her voice stiff and uncompromising even as she shuffled uneasily in her seat. “Continue.”

Uneasy, my fingers tapped atop the next card. I did not know this deck. Yet, even as I drew the next card, I felt the magic of the cards call to me, proclaiming that it was mine to wield. Whether this deck would one day be mine or not, I still had cards to draw. “The Dark Sun,” I choked, my blood freezing in a torrent as I said aloud what I had drawn. Much like an eclipse, the Dark Sun’s one key difference was how it completely swallowed any light from behind it. The ebon, ambient glow of the dark sun dominated the entire card, consuming any attention that might be drawn from elsewhere. “The reading of your present, the Dark Sun signifies betrayed expectations. The sun is supposed to rise naturally, as it does every day, in the same way, with very little variance. Something changed, irreversible.” The soot on her moth-bitten clothes, the splinters lodged in her hand. Blood ate at the periphery of what skin I could see, a barely hidden secret. I didn’t dare ask.

“Yes,” Zosime said nothing else, the wooden table creaking more as she stared down at the two cards. Her eyes shook, unfocused, for a moment before narrowing on the cards again.

The final card. I turned the third card, Zosime’s future, over with a clear vision. My fingers burned as the card slipped over and revealed the nature of the woman’s future. Good or ill, there was no escaping the prediction, no separating myself from the prediction I was going to make for her. On a dark, moonlit night, a woman astrode a horse, with a hound as a companion, hunted for wolves just beyond the periphery. The stars guided the way for this woman, as the blue, ambient glow behind her heralded her entry to the hunting grounds. Untitled, I revealed the essence of the card. “Your future. The Hunters of the Night. It signifies a change in purpose, starkly different from the life you had before. There’s a different meaning now, something insistent.” I opened my mouth to elaborate further, but the silence that greeted me told me enough.

Zosime had been grimacing before I spoke. Now her eyes looked determined, some hidden burning desire behind those eyes. She plucked the three cards I had drawn and stole them away, holding them in her hands. “May I keep these?”

“I, I don’t think…” I stammered, the remaining cards slipping from the pile and dropping, one by one, to the floor. “I don’t think it matters. This isn’t my deck, I think.”

“Thank you.”

“So, can I go?”

Without saying a word, the lady smiled at me, slipping her three cards beneath the table, nodding.

I nodded back.

“Thank you, oh hallowed cartamancer. May we meet again under better circumstances.” Zosime bowed her head to me. Unlike before, though, there was a warmth to it. A kindness. The room began to shiver like a mirage shortly after that and I saw no more of the Greek woman.

Simon. I sat again in the armchair, waiting for Simon to return home. We still needed to talk.

---------------------------------------

And the book closed.

In Zosime’s hands, formerly the hands of a Spartan, three golden cards glowed softly. The Phalanx. The Dark Sun. And the Hunters of the Night. Her past, present, and future. In the ancient halls of the Library, Zosime shed the dust and the grime she had allowed herself to be swallowed by. The time of the Dark Sun was over.

It was time to become a Hunter of the Night.

[The Counter Cultist(Sawyer)]

Cole Pricefield wasn’t one for working out much. Usually, when he did it outside of the bare minimum it was out of sheer boredom. Or to vent anger. Today was the latter. Mostly anger at himself. Oh yes, each punch at the punching bag he thought of his own face. His own inability to make his friends happy. But there was another level underneath that. Anger at the situation. Bad enough that one of his and Rose’s heroes in the Knights turned out to be a lawbreaking crazy. Now he was being expected to work with someone who helped her? The punching bag briefly materialized Knight-Commander Peterson’s face. Cole whiffed that punch however.

“You should discipline yourself better.” Cole turned back to see one of his sources of anger. Zosime. Ancient Spartan warrior, brought to this time by aforementioned crazy Knight-Commander Elizabeth Maxwell. She didn’t really look the part anymore. Having changed from her tunic and bronze breastplate to clothes with more modern sensibilities. But still Cole knew what she was. A living walking violation of one of the most sacred magical laws of the modern age. And Evan Peterson wanted him and his partner Rose to work with her. Life was fucking awesome.

“Today’s not so much about actual skill,” Cole said, turning back to the punching bag and landing a few more blows. His own face again. “More just venting.” Ah yes, venting. Venting his anger at Maxwell for pulling some weird no-no time travel bullshit and nearly breaking the universe. Anger and frustration at Peterson for expecting him to work with somebody who should’ve died more than two thousand years ago. Somebody who could have no idea how to function in this day and age.

Anger at himself. For failing to protect the ones he cared about. An extra hard punch came, and he shook his hand in pain.

“Perhaps you could vent better with a live opponent?” Cole turned around to see Zosime stepping into the padded ring for sparring, throwing on a pair of gloves. Cole just stared for a moment. Wondering what exactly she had in mind for this. Maybe she just wanted to talk? Shrugging his shoulders, he simply stepped into the ring in front of her.

“Care to ring the bell Corporal?” Cole stared for another moment. The girl was full of a surprising number of modern terms. Still, he made a quick bell ringing motion with his hand.

“Ding ding,” he said, and he dropped into a low stance. He really didn’t know the first thing about how Spartan’s fought. But this was just supposed to be a training bout right? No need to worry.

“So what is worrying you Corporal?” Cole blocked a few simple strikes Zosime sent his way as she asked the question. “Why are venting your troubles upon innocent punching bags?” Cole thought about ignoring the question. But his mother hadn’t raised a rude son.

“Just the normal everyday shit Zosime,” he said, “you can just call me Cole by the way. The Knight’s aren’t exactly a military.” He launched a few strikes of his own. One low one high. Both blocked or dodged effortlessly.

“Given my situation I hope you’ll understand that I have no idea what you mean by normal everyday shit Cole.” A few more strikes, Cole dodged these and launched another low counter. Again Zosime dodged.

“Well, my friends and I were kidnapped last week.” Cole launched forward again with more strikes. Again effortless dodging. “By a bunch of drunk untrained racists. That was pretty embarrassing actually.” This time he managed to land a blow, but the excitement faded when she returned with two of her own. He jumped back before she could get a grip around him for a hold. Time to be a little more serious.

“I’m sure they surprised you. No shame in that.” God dammit she just sounded so fucking earnest. It infuriated him. He launched forward with a few more punches, only for her to backstep away. He managed to keep himself balanced and faced her off. Not even breaking a sweat. He sidestepped a little bit.

“Yeah well,” he started, “we were saved. Which leads to a whole host of other problems.”

“Oh, such as what?” God dammit, what was her fucking interest? Cole stepped forward with a quick jab again. This one connected. And this time he made sure to backstep immediately. Zosime looked at him, a very impressed look on her face. Yeah. Bet you were impressed, Cole thought to himself.

“First off, the guy who saved us is also a bit of murdering maniac himself. He’s killed at least three other groups of criminals since.” Cole dodged Zosime’s next strike and blocked the one that followed. “Rose wants to fucking end him. Thinks he’s the goddamn devil or something. My roommate Angel, on the other hand has barely left her room all fucking week and refuses to really speak much to me. Not to mention we have no idea if the guys that kidnapped us were the ones killing all those Fae girls. Seems likely, but since none of them are alive to confess we’ll never know.”


“Sounds to me that you’re caught in the middle of two wildfires and don’t know which one you should put out.”

“The fuck is that-” Cole was interrupted by Zosime sweeping his leg and pinning him to the ground. She gripped him into some sort of hold and started tapping immediately. She loosened her grip, but did not let him go. For a moment he stared right into her hazel eyes, unsure of what exactly was going on.

“It means that you need to make a decision of which friend to help. The one that’s losing herself to rage, or the one that’s wallowing in despair. If you want my advice you should help this Angel. Either by forcing her out to someplace where she can take her mind off things, or just staying in. Rose is a more complex problem. Something tells me this rage you mention is not unfounded, that there is some reason behind it. But I’m sure Angel’s despair will be easier to diagnose. Go home to her.” With that, she let off of Cole and offered him her hand. Cole contemplated it for a moment, before finally taking it and letting her help him up. Zosime slapped his shoulder and walked away. Cole watched as she went, thinking to himself.

“Hey,” he called out. The Spartan stopped and turned back to face him. He thought of all the other questions he wanted to ask. Did you know what Maxwell was doing was wrong? Why did you still help her if you did? He settled on something a little different.

“Why did you want to stay here?” It was probably a more loaded question than he had intended. When the Knight’s had raided Elizabeth’s facility the various people like Zosime that she had brought together from throughout history had been sent back to their respective times. Minds wiped, able to go back to their real lives. From what he had understood of the situation, Zosime had refused and fought off all attempts to restrain her. And Cole couldn’t really fathom why. For her part, Zosime seemed unwilling to answer. At first. Then she turned all the way around to face Cole.

“Elizabeth saved my life. Stopped a minotaur from killing me. To go back would mean death.” Cole’s eyes widened as she spoke. He hadn’t thought of that. He wondered how many the Knights had sent back to die.

“That isn’t the only reason of course. You see Cole, I made a lot of friends with the others Elizabeth brought to your time. And most of them died in the line of duty.” Cole could see it in the warrior’s eyes. That familiar sadness of a lost brother or sister in arms. He knew the feeling well. “When I was told going back also meant losing my memories, I couldn’t go. All the friends I’ve lost deserve someone to remember them.” Cole thought he saw the glimmer of a tear. But if there was the Spartan had simply forced it back into her eyes.

“Thank you for the spar Cole, I look forward to working with you.” Cole watched as Zosime walked away. He contemplated what she had said. She was right of course. Rose needed time to work through her anger. Also maybe to burn a few things. But Angel was a little more delicate and fragile. Instead of letting her work through her problems she needed someone to help her. Or maybe, someones.

“Hey Zosime,” he called out again. “How’d you like to hit the town?”

[J.O.N ((Dragonwing))]

Parlour Tricks
Featuring Nathan from James' round one entry

Helen rested her head against the cold, hard window of the cab. The rhythmic beat of the rain on the car and the dance of the droplets across the glass were soothing for her. Ever since the events in Glasgow and the appearance of her shadow – as she had come to see it – she had little time to rest. Her hand dropped to the wound in her side. Now it was nothing but a scar, seared closed by magic and good stitching, but it still frustrated her when she she tried to push herself. Something she had been doing since she was allowed to leave the hospital. Her brother had taken plenty of time to chide her; when he wasn’t busy apologising for getting her caught up in it.

“He’s an idiot, I was mixed up in this from the start,” Helen thought to her self. “The moment I stepped off that plane.”

For days after her confrontation with her shadow, Helen had pulled every string she had, investigated any strange occurrence that happened in the city, and researched anything she could about what happened. None of it came through. As far as the world was concerned, what happened to her was impossible and never happened. So she left Glasgow for London.

Most people assumed that places of magic were hidden sanctuaries far removed from human interference; standing stones, quite groves, or hermit huts far from the noise and chaos of the cities. Watching people dashing through the rain, ducking in and out of cars and stores, Helen mused on the misconception of magic. It loved chaos. It loved humanity. You wouldn’t find magic at the bottom of the ocean or on the moon.

As her mother said, it clung to humans, became a part of them. From where it originated they didn’t know. But it sought humans out, and where humans collected, so did magic. Almost every culture on Earth had stepped foot on its ancient cobble roads, by choice or force. So for London, a city of the world, it was inevitable that magic from all corners of the world would find itself woven in to the fabric of the region.

If she intended to find her shadow, this was the best place to go. Already she had pulled a thread and got a response. An old friend from her unit had suggested she try talking to a fortune teller. She wasn’t sure if he could help her with finding out more about this shadow, but he might be useful in divining what it might do.

The cab came to a stop deep within the claustrophobic inner streets of London. She handed the fare to her driver and stepped out in the bustling crowd. The stores around her were mostly the stylish boutique stores of a high street, but jammed in-between them was the occasional run down looking book shop or oddities collectors. The building Helen found herself standing in front of was not to dissimilar to those narrow and dilapidated buildings. It seemed out of place in the shadow of a major chain jewellery store. Ducking out of the mid afternoon drizzle, Helen opened the glass pane door and stepped in.

The smell of coffee and pastries greeted her along with soft jazz. Small wood tables with somewhat comfortable chairs dotted haphazardly around the room. It looked like a small café with patrons sitting around tables. They seemed ordinary enough, but the entire building felt steeped in magic. Helen couldn’t see it, it was too subtle for that, but every plank of wood in the floor or the furniture itself made the air thick with the weight of bound spells.

“This is a fortress.” She muttered to herself.

Making her way to the counter, she found herself standing behind a well dressed older woman. The woman seemed to be tying to order an Irish coffee while the barista was doing her best to explain that they couldn’t serve alcohol. Helen looked away and began to watch the procession of staff ducking in and out of a bead curtain beside the counter. It looked like it led to the kitchens, but every now and then a customer would be escorted in by a staff member.

“May I take your order ma’am?” The barista interrupted her before she could see if the customers came back out.

“Ah… yeah, um I’m here to talk to a Nathan?” Helen pulled out a piece of paper from her coat with the address of the place and the name Nathan scrawled on it. The barista seemed to know what she was asking about nodding along with a sweet smile.

“Of course, well it’s forty pounds for a reading and it comes with a free coffee or tea and cake.”

Helen’s eyebrows raised at the price.

“He’s really good.” The barista defended with the same smile.

“Okay, well I’ll just take the drink thanks.” Handing over a couple of notes. Running the till, the Barista handed back the change.

“What drink would you like?”

“Do you do a Gunfire?” Helen asked.

The barista’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“I’m sorry a Gunfire? We might be able to, is it a type of coffee?”

“Just tea and rum,” Helen shot the barista a smile when she saw the girls face fall at the mention of alcohol. “Don’t worry, a long black will do.”

Taking Helens order, the barista guided her to a table near the entrance to the back of the café. Sitting down, Helen went back to watching the doorway. She had been curious about the fortune teller since he had been suggested to her. The only information she could get from her friend was that he had moved to London little under a year ago and already he had become immensely popular with the inner city wealthy.

Her thoughts were momentarily interrupted as her coffee was placed before her.

It was curious she would find him here though. It had sounded like he was just some charlatan good at convincing the rich that they would live exciting lives, or find true love. This building though felt like a front. A bustling bourgeois café aimed at attracting high street shoppers didn’t need to lace itself in magic.

“If it’s a front, who for?” Helen mused, taking a sip.

There was another thought scratching at her mind. Had she just endangered everyone here with presence? Would her shadow attack here now? She didn’t even notice her fingers drumming on the table until another waiter came over to her.

“Is everything satisfactory ma’am?” The man said glancing at her nervous hand. Cursing herself she stuffed it in her coat pocket and shook her head.

“No I’m fine thank you.”

Looking over at the curtain, the man watched a customer leave the back room with a grin on her face. It was the customer that Helen had watched enter earlier.

“I believe you are now free to meet the fortune teller, Let me show you the way. It can be easy to lose your way.”

Helen stood up to follow him, somewhat puzzled by the idea of getting lost in such a small building. Picking up her cup and saucer, the waiter guided her through the beaded curtain. Passing through it felt like stepping through a portal. All sound from the café was lost, instead there was just the soft clinks of plates and utensils from further down the corridor they were in. Helen reckoned that was the direction of the kitchen. The waiter ignored that and instead started making his way up a set of stairs almost hidden in an alcove.

There was another hallway at the top of the stairs where the waiter led Helen until he came to a stop at what seemed to be a random plain wooden door. Looking back from where they came, Helen wasn’t surprised to see that the hallway seemed far longer then they had travelled.

“You are free to enter Ma’am, do you wish to take your coffee in?” The waiter asked, opening the door for her.

“No thank you, just some privacy will be fine.”

“Of course ma’am.” He then quietly slipped away, leaving Helen to enter the room.

It was a rather spartan space. A simple television set was left on top a drawer across from a single bed. A large wardrobe dominated the back wall and in the centre of the room was a coffee table large enough to take up much of the remaining space. Sitting at it on a pillow was a young man dressed in a white shirt and jeans. Illuminated by several candles placed around the room.

“Come in, please get comfortable, there is a chair if you need it.” He greeted her, shuffling a deck of cards in his hands.

Helen sat on the floor across from the youth. She wasn’t sure how old he was, easily early twenties though.

“I’m not what you expected I guess?” He asked, throwing her a wry grin.

“Nathan I assume?” He nodded and placed the deck of cards face down between them. “I was told I should come to you for help.”

Taking a seat on the floor from across from him she looked around the room uncomfortably. She wasn’t sure what to expect but this seemed odd. It was like the sort of thing she would expect from a charlatan, but there was no denying the magic around them.

“I assure you ma’am, I’m the best Cartomancer in London, I can reveal your future and shine a light on the path you walk.” He spoke with the save irritating civil tone she used when talking with superior officers she disliked. He was taking her for a ride.

“Kid, I don’t have time for nonsense, is your Cardomancy the real thing or not?” As she spoke she pulled out her military I.D and flashed it at him. He seemed to recognise the symbol of the Circle and his face flushed white.

“I… Yes, okay I think I can.” He was getting nervous, thrown off guard and Helen rolled her eyes in frustration. “Is it just a future reading? It just seems the government have their own people for that.”

“I was told you were better than them. Also this is off the records,” Helen responded, growing impatient. She didn’t have time if this ended up a false lead. “Look I don’t need to see my future, I need to see the future of something tied to me, by magic.”

“I don’t really understand?” Nathan began to question, fidgeting and eyeing the door behind him. He was getting scared of her. Helen took a breathe and looked him straight in the eyes.

“I need your help. I’m doubtful you can, but I’m willing to give this a shot. Could you just try?”

He stared back for a moment before looking away. Nodding his head he began to shuffle the deck quickly before placing back down and he tapped the top of it. Immediately Helen felt magic of the house flow down to him, his will guiding it into the cards. As he worked, she reached out and let her own torn remnants of power lick at his, forming an anchor to her intended target. He glanced up at her in surprise, but seemed to understand her intentions.

“It’s Cartomancy by the way.”

“What?” Helen looked at him in confusion.

“Cartomancy, with a tee, not a dee”

Helen eyed him with impatient annoyance which he ignored, flipping over the first card.

It was a picture of a road meandering through a thick forest,

The next one was a mime wearing a mask, its face blank.

Finally Nathan flipped the last card and it came up black. Blank. Not a single marking on it but a black side.

Helen looked up at him to see what the interpretation was, but he looked shocked. Confused.

“I, I don’t have that card. That isn’t mine.” He said, brow furrowed. He was hesitant to touch it, his finger hovering over it. “I mean the other two are simple enough. The path suggests a journey while the mask represents confusion, hidden identity. Some sort of journey to find oneself.”

“And the black card?”

Nathan shook his head again.

“Like I said that isn’t mine, I haven’t any card like it, I honestly couldn’t gi-”

“Wait.” Helen shushed him, watching the card.

The card had began to ripple, like the small waves in a pond. The blackness had taken on a cloudy pattern that seemed to move in the candle light. Looking up in surprise, Helen noticed that the colour of the candles were darkening, their light getting dimmer.

Smoke began to pour up from the card like froth from a boiling pot. Nathan scrambled back from the table as Helen cursed and rose to her feet. Rising higher, the darkness began to coalesce in to face. Looking down at it, Helen saw her own features, warped by the darkness, stare back at her.

“Hello again failure, still willing to play this game of cat and mouse?”

“What the fuck is that?” Nathan whispered from the back of the room.

“Oh, think it’s wise to bring more people into this? You want to see more people suffer?” Her shadow mocked.

“You can’t hurt him, this place is well beyond your abilities, I know that much.”

In response the building groaned and shuddered, like the walls had come under great stress. It lasted just a second. The face seemed to take on an annoyed look.

“I guess you are right, but don’t think I didn’t notice you trying to find me. I’m hurt, You should know me, I am you, just better. If you want to find me, just think; if you were capable of fixing things, making them right, where would you go in this great city?” As it spoke, the smoke began to collect itself back in the card, the candles brightening. “I’m sure you can figure it out, after all I am just fixing your mistakes.”

And then it was gone. The room back to a sickly yellow from the candles.

“What the hell, was that?” Nathan asked again, sitting up and staring daggers at Helen.

“Sorry, I didn’t think it would be able to notice us. That was my shadow.”

Picking up the black card, Helen flipped it over and tried to sense anything from it. But it had returned to being ordinary.

“Would you be able to do that again?”

“What?!”

Helen looked at Nathan and flinched in her mind. Another youth she was going to throw to the wolves?

“You want me to help you again, after that?!” His voice still a whisper but viscous, angry.

Helen nodded, she knew it was unlikely he would agree to her request. But he had already proved his worth by bringing her the first lead she had.

“I understand, but this is very important, peoples lives are at stake.”

“Let me think on it.”

Helen was ready to try and keep pushing him. Instead caught of guard she swallowed her words and watched him pace back and forth in the small room.

“I have my own journey I guess, about finding myself. I’m also sick of paying the rent here with pointless fortunes. Let me think about it for a night.”

Helen nodded, astonished that he was so willingly after what he had just seen.

“You must promise to tell me everything if I agree.”

“Of course,” Helen agreed. “I’ll leave you be then and be back tomorrow.”

Stepping out of the café in to the cold night air, Helen pulled her coat close and set out to find a pub. She had a direction to go in.

[Sekot]

Round Two

James

I’m a little disappointed in your character choice, mostly because I feel it was a “safe” one. While the technical portion of your writing is exemplary, I feel kinda meh about the overall portion. I understand the difficulty of having little to write with, in terms of prompt and wanting to continue building to some end, but this piece feels too much like a segue. This feels like a transition from something good to something good, with this being merely a bridge. There’s just not enough here to really comment on.


Allya

Amazing use of prompt. I felt you weaved Rytt in extremely well, and switching POVs to Oz was a surprise. I’ll admit, I didn’t get it at first, but on my reread it all fit together a lot better. I had to go back and figure out what character you were using as I totally missed it on a first pass. One thing I would say needs work is that you’re “action” sequences move really quickly. We’re in first person, from the POV of Oz, but there’s a lot of “and we did this” and “we did that”. It made the ending feel rushed and kinda bland. Again, I didn’t give you much to work with so I get it, but just some thoughts for going forward.


Injin

Ohhh Injin, oh my poor boy. So you did the thing I do not like with world building. You explicitly lay out what The Library is, spending paragraphs just expounding information I don’t really care about as it isn’t hugely relevant to your story. Like, why? Why can Zosime not meet cartamancers in a bar? Why does it have to be through communion with a book of all things? This idea, I guess, isn’t terrible on the surface, but it really doesn’t make a lot of sense.

Your choice of becoming Nathan was...interesting. While not a bad one, I’ll applaud you for it, I do think you still need to flesh out your own characters first. This was much about your character as it was someone else’s. Also, the style and writing just feel forced. Its robotic and artificial, which you’ve been doing a good job of not doing recently. I feel this was reverting to an old Injin.


Sawyer

Short and quick, which in your case was not a bad thing. While slightly derivative over all, I think your choice of having Cole work out his frustration with Zosime was a good use of prompt. However, I feel like we’ve kinda skated over Cole’s emotional turmoil. This reads kinda like an anime where we don’t get to spend a lot of time on Cole’s emotional well being and words are shared through fists rather than spoken. I get the appeal, but we’re not writing for children here. You should definitely develop Cole’s emotional state a bit more, have him talk less overall cause you can’t really do that in a fight anyway, and just slow down.

It was little bit jarring at first, too, to see how you introduced Injin’s world and character into your own. When I wrote the prompt, I did not have a melding quite so literal in mind. I think you could better serve to dial that back a bit, unless you’re actively talking to Injin to get more of his world into yours.


Jason

So you’re right, this feels rushed. I think your interpretation of Nathan was good enough, I was amused by his hyper nervous portrayal, but I felt you skimped on Helen. She sat there just being annoyed throughout, over and over with very little variance in her overall temperament. Given the anxiety she’s feeling, I’d expect her to at least snap or shout or do something. But there just isn’t enough time spent dwelling on her emotional well-being at all. You whisk us from action to action, racing to let us meet Nathan, and then we’re done. I’m missing that impact, that feeling I need to get me out of a scan and into the meat of your work, and it just isn’t there. I’ve read your story as many times as the others, but it doesn’t warrant much more than a scan.

But what you’ve got here is the framework for a solid story that I’d love to see you continue. Just get your head in the game.